


passing afternoons

by reciprocityfic



Category: Little Women (2019), Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: (with the tiniest bit of angst if you squint hard), F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27773587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reciprocityfic/pseuds/reciprocityfic
Summary: “did you have any dalliances after me?” she asks.he blinks hard as his brain reels for a moment, as he struggles to comprehend what she’s saying.  after her?  there is no after her.  there never will be.then, he stops.  thinks.  she means...oh.  oh.she means after that time in the garden, in paris.  when he’d first revealed his feelings for her, and she’d rejected him.  left him standing there alone and feeling like an utter, hopeless idiot.oh.***laurie and amy spend a late summer afternoon talking about the past.
Relationships: Theodore Laurence/Amy March
Comments: 10
Kudos: 154





	passing afternoons

**Author's Note:**

> hello there! i'm rebekah, and i've literally shipped laurie and amy since like fourth grade. so when i saw little women (2019) and found out it did my bbs justice, i basically cried. i've been meaning to write fic ever since, but alas, here we are almost a year later. i hope you enjoy it anyways.

They enjoy being lazy after sex.

They’re not always afforded the opportunity, of course. At night, they tend to fall asleep rather quickly afterwards, exhausted and sated and tangled together. And the occasional forbidden interlude - when they’re some party or gathering wholly bland or pretentious and the two of them (sometimes tipsy, sometimes bored, always and perpetually desperate for each other) run off to some dark corner or isolated room where he lifts the skirt of her dress and the too-many layers underneath and uses his body to press hers against the wall as he sinks into her from behind and they pray their moans and the sounds of their bodies together won’t be heard - must be short and altogether swift, no time to dwell in the aura of the sensations and feelings between them.

But then, there are days when Grandfather is occupied with the business and the Marches are busy and they dismiss the servants. It’s just the two of them in their grand house with time that seems to stretch on and on. Sometimes they’ll make it a game of sorts, shamelessly flirt and tempt each other to see who will break first, but oftentimes they’ll share a look and a smile and then they’re off in a race to their horizontal surface of choice.

Today is one of those days, when they’ve nowhere to be, nothing to do, and are all alone. It’s an unusually hot day in late September, and when Amy had complained about the warmth, he’d suggested she take her blouse off. She’d raised an eyebrow and told him to go first, and then one thing led to another and now they’re naked and sore and satisfied, laying on their bed as the early afternoon sun shines in through their open windows.

He lays on top of the sheets on his back, head at the foot of the bed and hands on his stomach, staring up at the ceiling and trying to find imaginary patterns in swirling paint. She lays parallel to him, but leans against the headboard, her long blonde hair falling around her face as she sketches him. He hadn’t seen her take out the pad and pencil she keeps in the dresser near their bed, but he can hear the sound of graphite moving against paper as she draws. He grins as he imagines her face, lips pursed and brow furrowed, wide green eyes focused and the movement of her hand knowing nothing but purpose even with the most casual of sketches.

They do not touch and do not talk. Still, the intimacy of the situation - of being together and completely safe and comfortable with the person you love most in the world - is overwhelming. Its warmth cocoons him, and he feels his eyes getting heavy as he lies there, a breeze blowing in from the open window and caressing his skin.

“You had your many dalliances after Jo, yes?”

His eyes snap open when he hears her question, his stomach lurching slightly and his mood dampening.

He ran away to Europe and drowned himself in alcohol, drugs, and women after Jo broke his heart, and he admits this. Amy knows it, too. And it’s not that he’s ashamed of that period of time, exactly - while he wishes he had, indeed, bore it better, he finds himself sympathetic to the plight of people scorned by love, however misguided that love might be.

He just doesn’t often talk about it. Doesn’t like to. In his mind and in his heart, it is only Amy. Has always been, and always will be.

Amy doesn’t really like to talk about it, either. He finds her inquiry curious, but answers anyway.

“Yes,” he tells her, although the word comes out sounding more like a question than an answer.

He waits for her to explain her line of thought, but she simply hums to herself. He stares at the ceiling a moment longer, then leans up, resting his weight on his elbows.

She’s staring down at her drawing, her face just as he pictured it, pencil grasped between her lips as she swipes her thumb against the paper. He watches as she takes the pencil out of her mouth and starts at it again, and he watches her for nearly a minute before opening his mouth to speak.

She beats him to it, though.

“Did you have any dalliances after me?” she asks.

He blinks hard as his brain reels for a moment, as he struggles to comprehend what she’s saying. _After_ her? There is no after her. There never will be.

Then, he stops. Thinks. She means... _oh._ Oh.

She means after that time in the garden, in Paris. When he’d first revealed his feelings for her, and she’d rejected him. Left him standing there alone and feeling like an utter, hopeless idiot.

Oh.

He shifts on the bed, drops his eyes from her face. He can feel his skin begin to flush from embarrassment.

They’ve never talked about this before.

Not that there’s much to talk about, he supposes. He still hesitates to tell her - not because he fears she’ll be angry with him, but because he doesn’t _like_ to talk about it. If it were up to him, he would erase from his mind the memory of every woman he’d ever been with until only his wife remained.

But she’s asked, and he’ll be honest with her.

“One, I suppose,” he murmurs.

“You _suppose_?” she questions. She’s still staring down at her artwork, but her pencil doesn’t move.

“Sort of, yes,” he confirms.

She finally looks at him, her eyebrows pulled together and a frown on her face.

“How do you _sort of_ have a dalliance?”

She looks genuinely confused, and he laughs lightly at the crease between her brows, sits up fully and reaches out to her. He cups her face and uses his thumb to rub at the wrinkle of skin.

“Shall I explain?” he asks her.

She nods.

“I...tried to be angry after you left. Just think - to be turned down by not just one, but _two_ March girls!” he gasps playfully, and she snickers, pushing against his shoulder playfully before dropping her hand to run over the sparse hair on his chest.

“But?” she prompts.

"But I couldn’t make myself angry. Not at you. But I also knew I couldn’t just stay there in France and watch you and Fred Vaughn…”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and she rolls her eyes playfully.

“We’re speaking of all your affairs, and you want to tease about _Fred_?”

“It’s part of my story!” he insists with a wink, and she rolls her eyes again.

“Well, keep telling it.”

He smiles, and continues.

“I couldn’t stay, so I did what you told me to. I went to London, as you know. And when I first got there, there was a woman staying at the same hotel as I was. We got to talking one evening at dinner, and one thing…”

He trails off, feeling himself flush again.

“...led to another,” Amy finishes. “I understand. I don’t need the details.”

She’s frowning now, even though her fingers still run over his chest, and he _despises_ it. He has half a mind to drop the subject, to kiss her lips and make her happy and forget life before, but he can’t.

“Wait, I’m not done.”

“Laurie, I don’t need to hear any more. You had your dalliance, I’m not upset, and we can stop - “

“I couldn’t do it,” he interrupts. “It didn’t work.”

She pulls back from him slightly, her eyes wide and curious. She looks down his body.

“You mean you couldn’t...?”

He follows her gaze, and then snorts.

“Not like _that_ . It - it didn’t even _get_ to that. Amy, my dear.”

He lifts her chin, and she gazes at him. He can tell she’s still confused.

“Every time I closed my eyes,” he explains, “I saw you - the face you made in the garden before you turned away and left. It broke my heart. It _still_ breaks my heart. And when my eyes were open, all I could think about was how her skin wasn’t as soft and her hair wasn’t as fair and her eyes were brown instead of green and she just...wasn’t you.”

“But with Jo...”

“It was different with Jo. I could make Jo into anyone. I could always pick out the tiniest thing that reminded me of her, in any woman, and then pretend that woman was her. I couldn’t...do that with you. Or maybe I didn’t want to. In any case, being with that woman didn’t make me _forget_. She made me remember all the more. And I only kissed her for about a minute before I realized it was worthless.”

He stops and grabs one of her hands, brings it to his mouth so he can kiss her fingertips, before holding it over his heart.

“And that’s when I knew that this was different. You _weren’t_ Jo, and I wasn’t going to be able to just...drink and fuck you away.”

She’d normally gasp and swat him playfully for his use of the coarse word, but now she stays silent and presses her hand more firmly against his chest.

“I was in love with you. Hopelessly and completely. And I realized that all I could do was stay in London and toil away and... _pray_ that somehow you would change your mind.”

Then, everything had changed. Beth died, and then he knew he had to be with her. It didn’t matter if she despised him, or if Fred was there. He _needed_ to be with her. But before that, he had been rather resigned to his fate - to work for his grandfather and forever pine after Amy March.

God had smiled upon him, though. And now, here he sits with his _wife_ , Amy Laurence. Married, in love, and happy.

“So does that explain how one can have a single, sort-of dalliance?” he asks her.

But she stares at him, eyes shining, almost with tears.

“You were going to wait your whole life for me?” she whispers.

He smirks slightly, turning away from her and shrugging, somehow embarrassed. But she grabs his face, turns it back to her, and locks their gazes.

“What else would you have me do, my lady?”

“Oh, my lord,” she breathes, and kisses him deeply, until his toes curl and he can feel himself begin to harden once again. When she pulls away, they’re both panting. He wants to grab her, to gather her up in his arms again, but her pad and pencil remains between them.

He motions to the picture.

“Still working on that, Raphaella?”

“Maybe later,” she remarks, taking the paper and all but throwing it on the floor beside the bed. She pushes him back so he’s laying once again, and climbs on top of him, straddling his waist. “I have another idea how we can pass time this afternoon.”

She leans down and kisses his smiling mouth.

Yes, God had smiled upon him. Had given him back his love. And he’s married, in love, and happy.

_Achingly_ happy.

**Author's Note:**

> i have another fic in the works that's longer and definitely more angsty, which i hope to post relatively soon. i also hope to write more fluff (also maybe smut???) for them in the coming months bc GOD i just love imagining these two together. in the meantime, i hope you enjoyed this! leave kudos or a comment if you feel so inclined.
> 
> xoxo,  
> rebekah


End file.
